I am so sorry this took so long.
This is the second to last chapter!
There will be an epilogue, perhaps two, and then we will be moving onward to Modern Day II!
And now, time for reviews!
Ryu-Zero-Rei : I wouldn't say that Val knows that Iyzeka knows what's going on. Val may be a genious, but we all can live in denial, even the smartest of us! And you are very close with the mirror. But it has many different layers of meaning – that is just one of them! And you are once again correct as to what Xellos is meant to learn. However, as with us all, I think it is a rare individual who is truly able to keep such revelations fresh in his or her heart. Xellos will still have a long way to go before he is "healed". As for the angelic herarchy, yeah, I mixed it up, but mostly because "Archangel" has always sounded and seemed to be really important (like Michael is an archangel, and Gabriel) yet many sources say that seraphim are higher than archangels. But we never hear about any seraphim! So I did a little switching around of names. :-p Thanks for reviewing! I loved it!
Mwafwa: I loved the mirror scene too. I tried to make it come across that the transformation was occurring without just saying "his image turns into Lina, ta-da!" I hope this new chapter also satisfies! Xellos and Val still have much to learn, yes . . .
Ryoko: thanks! What do you think of Mel and Azrael?
Icy Neko: Well, there will be more sexual tension to come! And I'm so glad you like it. If you prefer the Japanese VA, that's fine by me! Xellos' emotions . . . it's not just hormones, it's everything. He lost control of the darkness, and it erupted. Not the last time, either . . . (bwa ha ha)
Emmy Jenny: A seraphim is a type of angel. It's said to be higher than Archangels sometimes, but I changed it for my own uses. I think "Archangel" sounds more impressive. Wow, you've not seen a single whole episode? But your ideas are good! I really should bring mace-sama back. But until Xellos returns, Filia has no clue where it is! Darn that Mazoku, making her rely on him for everything. Of course, it's not her fault, oh no! lol. I hope you fe4el better. I know how stress can get! (hugs)
SithKnight-Galen: Xellos will find some closure. But he is so tortured, he's gonna need more help. Azrael and Meliael have some . . . similarities to Zelgadis and Amelia, but they are not them. This chapter should cement that, but we'll see! Yep, Zelas is herself being stretched to her limits! Helping Filia isn't what she's used to, but she did her best. As for Luna . . . That is a secret! (damn, Xellos needs to say that more. It would do him good . . .)
Famelia Ly: Wow! You are so sweet to Mel. Don't worry, things improve grately here. Azrael is just . . . not really a traitor. Just stressed. Highly emotional. Tormented. Hey, he's the Angel of Death! Give the guy a break! Tee hee! (hugs) I hope this chapter gives you warm fuzzies as to Mel/Azrael. It was fun to write!
Jadehaku: Wow, I am so touched that your mom likes it too! That is awesome. Say hello to her from me! I find it surprising I'm like Anne Rice. Wow! That's a compliment. (I will have to go read her stuff) I hope this is a good chappy too!
As for chapt. 46: Aw. Thanks! As for a list of songs, I posted up some on Vincellia's Modern Day Yahoo site. Check out my profile for the link. There are a few more, and I may just make a file under the file section to show which songs were where! (hugs)
KaeruShisho: Zelas is a demon, after all! (or at least, a Mazoku who views herself still as demonic.) I am glad someone noticed how disturbing it was. Very intentional on my part. I think you will see a bit of what is really happening in heaven, but there will still be some "mystery" that will be answered later! Oh, your idea for Val was something I really wanted to do, but I got lots of writer's block! Next chapter, I promise. Your idea was awesome, thanks for reminding me that Val needs some distressing too. :-)
Serin Maris: That's the only sad part about writing this! I really want to read other people's ideas, and I hope I've not turned people off from writing them! Wow, another obsessed fan! I hope you slept! (pats) You are way too kind, I really am flattered. I'm so glad it was fun and exciting. Sorry this update took almost two months, life kicked me in the ass but I'm back!
Vincelia Valentine: I think Val has different layers to his personality. Considering his past, he has the "teenager" part of him, the "adult" part of him, and the "immortal strange" part of him. Each one view to be in control, and sometimes one supercedes the other. His "adult" part wants to protect his mother from harm. But the "teenager" part of himself feels the bitterness towards Xellos. Even still, the "immortal" (and far older than Filia or perhaps even Xellos, if you count his past life) is somber, and more stoic. Thus the odd fluctuation between one feeling and another. Val tries to be strong. Sometimes he doesn't have to try at all – sometimes he can't manage it. He's a character I'm quite proud of, actually. :-) Ah, another person disapproving of Azrael! Yeah, he is kinda a bastard. I hope this chapter is just as good! Thanks for all your support, darlin'!
Icecrystal48: You will get what you desire soon, my dear reviewer! Thanks, I loved the phoenix. Cute little fiery birdie! Thank you for the review, and I aim to please! I hope you enjoy this latest installment!
-:(-(-(-)-)-):-
Chapter 51
Land of the Dead - Book Five
-:(-(-(-)-)-):-
W I C K E D - O B L I V I O N
-:(-(-(-)-)-):-
The ringing was the only noise; the ringing of his staff against the steps, the snapping of his boots along the rigid surface he trode. The warm light of his staff illuminated unending walls and forever winding stairs, until wood gave way to stone, and a chill filled the stairway.
Musky, like a tomb, the air Xellos passed through clung at him, melted and poured itself into him, until he felt sullied by the stench of damp decay and age. Still he pressed on, and ages passed, then finally the curving steps ended and he walked out into a dreary vestibule of cut granite.
Further the hall went, devoid of anything but cobwebs and dust. Yet along the walls were entry-sized insets into the rock, as if a door could have been placed there, perhaps at one point, but now had been walled off, stone by stone. With every filled-in doorway along the corridor, the eeriness grew, and he could feel the walls closing in. No escape . . . no outlet. The last vestiges of freedom had been severed ages ago, millennia, eons. . . No proper amount of time could truly encompass the scale that weighed down Xellos' shoulders, the sensation of overwhelming emptiness and weary resignation with every plastered doorway he passed. Hope had long been forgotten in this place; darkness, instead, had taken up residence, never to leave.
At last, the saffron glow from his staff fell across the last expanse that remained of the corridor, the wall still shrouded in shadow. A dead end, another barren, walled off doorway, no doubt; another attempt that had ended in failure – he could feel it, and knew more deeply than he even knew himself. A great desolation roiled and coursed throughout him as he approached it, and the light fell across it eagerly.
But instead of a buried entrance, he found a door: deep mahogany, lacquered and glinting in the faint illumination, it rose before him. As Xellos studied it, he ran his hands along where a doorknob would be, on either side, but found nothing but straight wood. The tight seams held; apparently, there was no means of passage.
"Another hopeless end?" he spoke to himself, and felt his words swallowed by the oppressive air around him. Yet as he raised his staff to gaze upon the expanse of the door, a glimmer shone in the blaze, and flickering back at him as if in greeting stood a long, proud, jagged knife, imbedded into the door as if thrust there with great force.
Gently, the Mazoku raised a gloved hand to the dagger's sable hilt, and at his barest touch, it began to thrum softly, reverberating throughout the hall. The song slowly died, and in the silence, Xellos brought his staff closer to it and studied what he had found. There, his eyes discerned a pattern etched upon the blade. In ancient Aramaic, the words emblazoned were sparse; stained russet.
Glory. Agony. Dominion. Grief.
Xellos took a deep breath of the tepid air, then released it. Placing his hand upon the hilt once more, he clenched it tight, then drew it from the door. Death's dagger. It's the only possible answer.
Before he could further ponder this, the door began to swing inward, with great creaks and sighs, until it slowly, softly rested fully open. Ruddy light flooded Xellos' features, as displayed before him appeared to be a gallery of images; desolate statues, crumbling pillars, and oddities collected into piles like mementoes. He stepped within and absorbed as much as he could at once, feeling a strange desperation, and then
"How did you get here."
A cold, familiar voice rasped behind him, quivering and choked.
"This . . . isn't . . . POSSIBLE . . ."
Xellos turned, and Azrael stood before him clad in black, and he had no cloak to shield his figure, nor hood to hide his face. A frightening rage had enveloped his gentle features, vermillion eyes crackling and fangs flashing from between his lips, long braid thrashing behind him. From his back arched huge wings, ebony skin stretched taut across them and wicked claws grasping at the far tips. The enormous bat wings beat once in the air, and dust whirled across the obsidian floor, then settled.
Spinning the dagger in his hand, Xellos met the wrathful glower of Death, and bowed his head ever so slightly. "Azrael. This is your dagger, isn't it."
"This place," the archon spat, "isn't real. The dagger isn't real, you're not supposed to be able to get here." Garnet lightening crackled within the room as he seethed. "Xellos," his voice deepened, reverberating through the stone, "you are not meant to be here, to see this place. NO ONE IS ALLOWED HERE."
I see, Xellos told himself, watching Azrael's frenzy with concern. I suppose this is the end.
Then all changed, as a pensive Meliael appeared next to him, her mouth open to speak. Instantly, she paled to see the visage of Death wreathed in a mass of lightening and hellfire, sable wings spread and eyes engulfed by flame; rubicund eyes that spread wide as they fell upon her. "NO! MELIAEL-"
In the horror that flooded her features at the sight of his rage, Mercy turned away, cringing in fear – only for her gaze to fall upon the winged statue that glittered a multitude of jewels . . . a statue that possessed her face and looked down at her with her own eyes of darkest sapphire.
"W-what . . ." her voice barely whispered.
-:(-(-(-)-)-):-
T E R M I N U S – C L E M E N T I A
-:(-(-(-)-)-):-
That's . . . me . . .
It was the only thought she was allowed before Azrael fell upon her in all of his glorious wrath, the color of blood and fire becoming her entire existence.
"HOW DID YOU ENTER THIS PLACE, MELIAEL?" he roared as he rose above her upon his hellish wings, and she cowered, drawing her own feathery limbs over herself and quivering, shaking, unable to breathe
"HOW?"
"I, I f-felt Xellos, I followed him," she stuttered, "felt he'd completed the tasks—"
"Something he should NEVER have been able to do," Death seethed over her, booming words quaking the stone catacomb with every syllable. "So I am forced to wonder"- it was all that was needed, and her thoughts revealed her as she began to sob – "You," dismay softened the bombastic voice merely a moment, "You betrayed me. You helped him. Mel. HOW COULD YOU?"
I . . . . I didn't know, her thoughts stumbled as she wept, then gasped as he bent down to take her robes into his hands, pulling her swiftly to her feet.
"Stand up," he commanded, still enraged and long braid snapping behind him with the torrent of wind he commanded at each beat of his wings. "You will look at me. You have invaded my inner sanctum, and betrayed me. I trusted you, Meliael, Angel of Mercy." She raised her eyes fearfully to his, and tears poured down her face at the bitterness strewn across his child-like countenance. "How ironic," he breathed, and her chin dropped to her chest, defeated.
Yes. Ironic. To find out that he . . . Mercy started to weep again, feeling his fingers slip from her shoulders as he turned away, her eyes rising to seek out the statue just as his were cast aside to escape it: and there she stood, large as life . . . her broad wings, her open smile crystallized in precious emeralds and rubies, topaz and tourmaline, sapphire and diamond.
As Meliael put a hand to her mouth, sobbing into it, her eyes found another monument beyond; this one hidden in a corner of the room, faintly backlit by a frightful cerise glow.
She took a step towards it, and behind her heard Azrael curse softly, though Xellos stood silent. Thoughts cluttered and twisting, the petite seraphim stumbled forward, overwhelmed by the second statue, one that knelt before her within a fountain of crimson gore.
The sculpture carved of solid onyx appeared as a man, with bowed head and tortured expression; from his back spread broad demon wings, torn and shredded. His shoulders curved forward in despair, one hand hanging limply from a lifeless arm while the other shielded his desolate eyes from which blood dripped like tears, one after the other, to be swallowed by the shimmering viscous pool. But she knew that desperate mouth - that lean, solid figure that bent forward, broken – those hollow, hopeless eyes
With every stumbled pace forward, with every gasp, Meliael felt a part of her shatter, until she stood breathless before it, gazing up at the statue as it cried tears of blood and stared forlornly upon its own reflection in the ruddy waters.
She took a final step and reached forward to touch the miserable figure, her eyes falling upon the defining aspect that solidified her fears-
-Only to have a hand drop upon her shoulder, as she realized the room had fallen silent, and his deep, chilled voice sent shivers across her. "Time to leave, servant," he spat, and they began to vanish from the strange cavernous chamber . . .
But not before she saw the long braid of onyx that hung from the statue's head, to coil and be stained by the fountain of blood beneath. Truly ironic, she told herself as she closed her eyes, not wanting to see more yet overcome by the grief of her compassion. I lost it all . . . and I never even had it . . .
And look at what I've done to him . . .
Her only comfort was the warmth of his palm upon her flesh, but then it vanished, and she found herself standing along a cold, empty beach with a garnet moon above; the edge of existence that led from the realm of the afterlife into the otherness beyond.
There was nothing left in her to dispute him; all she could fathom was his hatred, and the betrayal etched across his face, features never to smile or laugh at her again. Suddenly sick, the Angel of Mercy dropped to her knees and crawled to the shoreline to sob into the ebony waters, her mournful gaze finding only her own reflection.
-:(-(-(-)-)-):-
T E N U O U S – G R A S P
-:(-(-(-)-)-):-
Xellos watched with growing disgust as Azrael berated his second in command, his disapproval strong enough that even the sudden transition into the familiar void of Hell barely disconcerted him. This is ridiculous. I've stayed silent far longer than I should have.
"That's more than enough," he spat at Death over the keening song of the dead, stepping forward to place himself between the Archangel and the sobbing seraphim strewn upon the sand at his feet. "Why don't you pick on someone your own obscene level of cosmic power," he growled, then raised an eyebrow. "That should narrow it down quite a bit, shouldn't it?"
"Excuse me?" Azrael mimicked Xellos' lifted brow and turned to face him instead, his bat wings vanishing just as his ebony robe reappeared, but eyes still roiling crimson fire. "What right do you have to tell me what to do in my own domain?"
Narrowing his eyes, the Mazoku held his ground. "I do as I please, and no matter how close we might have been before I was alive, I won't let you continue this."
"She helped you, of course you're gonna support her!" Death grated back, jaw clenched. "But she went against my orders."
Xellos tossed back his head and stared at the Angel of Death as if assessing him. "You never intended on letting me see Lina. Yet you told me you didn't lie. And now you blame the Angel of Mercy for doing her job. She's the angel of Mercy," he continued, voice raising, "you can't punish her for being what she was meant to be, for doing what she felt was right. And since you clearly kept her out of the loop," Xellos heard his own words soaring in volume as his rage grew, "I suggest you get a grip and GET OVER IT!"
In the dim garnet glow of the bloodied moon, Death's scarlet-cast features flushed and his eyes dimmed from frothing crimson to a tired orchid in color. He blinked, mouth opening then shutting uncertainly, and in the silence the sound of Meliael's cries seemed unnaturally loud. "You're right, Xel. You usually are," he added, and the old familiar pain had returned into his gaze; a pain Xellos had come to associate with the memories of when Azrael had known him, and he, Azrael; a pain of bittersweet regret and loneliness.
"It's not intentional this time," Xellos drawled, taking a breath of relief that the Angel of Death was no longer at odds with him. "So," he added and gestured to the winged girl still crying, "maybe you should . . ."
"Not just yet." Death's glare pinned him as a bright marmalade glow began to fill the space between them, illuminating their features in the blackness of the deserted shore of Hell. Xellos studied the Archangel's face; the broad, smooth forehead, his deep-set violet eyes that pierced his own relentlessly, his round jaw and chin, curved cheeks and strong nose. He had the intense feeling that this could be . . . that this would be the last time they would meet.
"It will be, most likely," Azrael told him somberly, and Xellos blinked, having not spoken aloud. "No, you didn't. I can read your thoughts," Death added. "It's a curse, and maybe a gift. But you and I will not meet again . . . not until your death, I foresee."
Xellos nodded, then looked down at the sand, the sounds of suffering surrounding. Not just the moans of the damned filled his ears, but the pain of Meliael . . . of himself . . . and of the dark angel that stood before him, shoulders hunched and expression far more dejected than the controller of Death should be.
"I can be weak around you, Xellos," the man whispered softly, his eyes straying into middle space where they stared, empty, into his own personal abyss. "Forgive me for my indulgence. There are very few whom which I can be myself around, without risking my 'image'," he straightened, smirking slightly at his own joke.
And one of those is sobbing uncontrollably into the ocean of Hell, Xellos informed him within his mind, and wondered if he heard.
Death's gaze hardened, then snapped back to Xellos. "And now, old friend. It's time for you to be going. So," he raised a finger, the sleeve of his robe flowing down his arm as he did so, "Bring forth that which I sent you to retrieve," he commanded.
Xellos hesitated, eyes caught once more by the sobering visage of Mercy weeping miserably into the inky sea. "Fine," he murmured finally, drawing from his satchel the stone bottle, the feather, and lastly the dagger. "Here, you've got your prize," he spat bitterly at Azrael, and placed them into the waiting hands. As his eyes drew back to Meliael, he shook his head, pitying her in her agony. We were both fooled, little one, he found himself musing, a fondness for the seraphim flickering into existence within. But I think your pain is far worse . . .
He turned back to watching Death, as the deceptively soft-featured Reaper stood silent as if awaiting his attention. "Watch, Xellos," Azrael murmured, indigo eyes glinting in the floating orb of light he had conjured. "You will not leave empty-handed, for all that you now despise me," his tired voice continued.
Before the Mazoku's eyes, Death took the feather and pushed it into the vessel of holy nectar. Instantly, the granite container began to glow and pulse hotly, the fluid becoming molten. With a swift motion, the braided Angel poured the entirety over the dagger's blade, and it absorbed it, brightening the blood-stained blade until it shined so that Xellos turned his head from the glare and shut tight his eyes.
"Watch!" Death's voice commanded, and Xellos forced his eyes open and stared as the luminous metal melted and shifted, solidifying within the brilliance into a very well-known form.
Silence surrounded, and was filled and overwhelmed with the weeping of the dead and the angel behind him as Xellos stepped forward, his mouth dry and stomach feeling decidedly queasy. There, held within a skeleton hand, sat the largest of Lina's magical amulets, the crimson stone glittering in the light like molten life-blood. "Azrael," Xellos breathed, "what . . ."
"She wants you to have it," the Angel of Death murmured with a darkly amused smile. "Just because she can't leave doesn't mean she can't watch what goes on. I told you, Xel," he spoke firmly, and Xellos held very still as the piercing gaze drilled into him, "Lina's busy. You take that as you may."
Xellos nodded, feeling the weight of those violet eyes as nothing he'd felt before. "I understand," he replied, and swallowed at the cotton taste upon his tongue as the amulet was placed into his hand by icy fingers of bone. I never knew being human could be this . . . uncomfortable. Even his time in China had not discomfited him so.
"In China," Azrael replied quietly, "you felt in control. Never forget, Xellos, who is in control here. And never forget who is in control there, either." The self-professed demon shifted under Death's intense stare. "It is not you. It never was."
Xellos nodded, and held the amulet tightly to his chest; and then his mouth dropped open a bit when the magical trinket melted into his flesh with that sickening sensation and brilliant glow before vanishing inside his own form. Hands empty again, Xellos gazed at Death uncertainly. "I suppose this is the end, then. Time for me to go," he muttered. Over . . . all over. And was it really worth it? He glanced over his shoulder to Meliael again and realized with a distant sense of surprise that his greatest regret in the entire endeavor was what he would be leaving behind: two broken souls, each damaged from the other. Did I cause this? Was I the impetus that brought this downfall?
"No, Xellos," Azrael told him softly as his gaze followed Xellos'. Both men stood silently watching the tiny girl as her cries slowly quieted, and the Mazoku shook his head though the Archangel continued to speak, his words cold and aged. "No one can truly cause the emotional suffering of another. In the end we all chose our own paths . . . including how we decide to feel. You did nothing but follow your heart." The violaceous tint to his eyes shimmered fluidly but he made no move to turn away from staring down at the Seraphim. "Go, Xellos. You probably won't remember much of what occurred here, but . . . for what it's worth . . . thanks."
The General Priest peered at Azrael for a long moment as the ambient light that floated among them began to dim, until naught but the burnished moon hanging in the sky cast its ruddy tinge over them all. Azrael . . . you're welcome, he spoke in his mind, then turned away from the shore and began to walk. His feet seemed to hang in space with every languorous step he took towards the dunes and the rocky cliffs, as if he were treading through molasses. Above him, starless oblivion reigned, and ahead spread the jagged landscape of the dead. Behind, the angels vanished into nothingness, and he found himself alone within Death's vestibule once more.
Cold, Xellos shivered as he gasped a breath of the stagnant, thin air, choking on the scent of salty decay and earth. Around him the voices and cries of the damned began to fade, his surroundings more shadowy than ever before. He struggled to put one foot ahead of the other, slipping on the stone and sand, the bones and twisted pines he could barely make out in the sable night.
His staff fell from his hand, his sight darkening to ebony blackness, and all sensation faded away . . . As he felt himself falling, one last sound touched his ears before all disappeared; a choking word, uttered in agony by a voice he knew he would never hear again.
"Mel . . ."
-:(-(-(-)-)-):-
A – W O R L D – U N F O U N D
-:(-(-(-)-)-):-
In her own world, the Golden Dragon soared within the bright sky of day . . . but in another reality, the darkness of night overshadowed the sun, and a silvery moon sparkled across the dragoness' shining scales.
Zelas protected her; gave her food when she hungered, a sky of light when she sought the brilliance, a refuge when the world had threatened. But the bitterness of others, she could not hide from; her tawny hide did not hold the only shine of the world, as glittering eyes watched and reflected back the sable night. Beast.
Crouched behind a moss-draped statue, a figure pale as parchment brushed back the locks of emerald hair that veiled the livid rage within her eyes. She watched the dragon within the midnight sky, absorbing every line of wing and neck, and every sweeping movement, her madness gorging upon the sight. Interloper.
A pet, the others had spoke of the Beast. A toy, a plaything to be used and tossed aside. The other remained more dangerous; an Ancient Dragon that had once known the power of the Mazoku and used it to nearly undo all things without Shabranigdo in the least. But the female Gold . . .
She should have been caged, not cosseted and pandered to. A collar should have graced that long, sinuous neck . . . chains should have hung from her, yet she flew free . . .
The dragoness so indulged, so highly placed . . . she would soon fall.
Thief.
Kirelle closed raven eyes and smiled a thin, wicked smile before brushing her hand down the sorrowful face of the stone girl she leaned upon. "Do not worry, pretty dragon," she told the statue, nails digging into the marble and cutting long lines across the slender granite throat. "You will be in good hands soon. Hands well suited . . . for you."
-:(-(-(-)-)-):-
A M O R I S – D E – A B A D D O N
-:(-(-(-)-)-):-
One breath followed another. One flutter of her lashes to follow the last. And the sound of the ocean hissed upon the silent air, the moans of the dying never ending, and the aching inside of her as dull as the cold thrust of a jagged knife deep within her chest.
And Death stood behind her, watching. Xellos had gone back to the land of the living. She blinked through her tears, wishing peace to the self-declared demon who had tried so firmly to defend her. There is no defense, she thought to herself. Oh, Xellos . . . oh, my Lady, my God, help me.
And then . . . he spoke.
"Mel . . ."
A crushing sound, a sound that tore into her and drew forth fresh sobs. Azrael . . . How she missed his true name. How she wished she could speak it once more . . .
Hands of warmth, flesh and blood, touched her shoulders and heated her through her ivory robes just as his velvety voice flowed over her. "You know I haven't been that person in many eons, Meliael. Not until the day of Judgment shall I have that name again."
She wiped at her eyes as he knelt next to her and gingerly pulled her closer to him to lean her head against his chest. His fingers gently kneaded along her shoulders, and she marveled at the sound of a heartbeat through his ebony raiments.
His soft chuckle reverberated through her as his arms wound around her, and she closed her eyes and wept against him as his words murmured into her ear. "Still an angel. I still have a heart. Even though most of the time I don't act like it, do I," he sighed, running his fingers along the valley of her back that rested between her spread wings.
Death slid her up onto his lap, resting his chin against her head as her cries began to still, her gasping breaths hitching less, and his hands still rubbing along her back. "Please," he finally began, voice quaking. "Don't cry, Mel. I . . . I know you probably want to transfer," I should, I really should, this is so humiliating, "and I know you're embarrassed, Mel," he pities me, "but," his voice floundered as tears returned to her eyes, "Dammit! Stop thinking so loud!"
He shook her once, then pulled her up by her shoulders to meet his desperate gaze. "Don't leave me, Mel," he commanded at a whisper, wide purple eyes burrowing into her own. "Who else is gonna kick my ass when I'm being an idiot? Nobody else has the guts. Nobody else stands up to me but God and even the other Archangels are terrified," he pleaded. "Mel? I . . ."
She pulled away from him and fell back on the sand, then wrapped her arms around herself as the wretched chill of death crept into her garments. "I . . . you hate me, though," she sniffled, dazed as he shook his head swiftly.
"No, no, no," he slumped, head tossing back and forth over and over, his hands rising to clutch at his bangs desperately. "Mel, no, I never hated you. I . . . I shouldn't have said what I said . . . . I didn't think, I just . . . panicked." His eyes fell to the waters that ebbed and flowed up to the silvery shore, and she watched as he stared hollowly into them. "By God, Mel," he breathed. "I ruined everythin', didn't I. I know you wanna leave, you have every right. Hell, just file for sexual harassment," he joked painfully, his deep velvet lilt catching on the words. "I . . . know you have a case. I . . . I mean . . ."
The Angel of Mercy watched as he hung his head, his shoulders bent inward and robe loosened enough to reveal the crest of the thick braid that disappeared beneath it. Hands clenching into the sand and eyes closing tightly shut, he murmured, "You . . . you're so quiet. Please . . ."
Her thoughts were a blur of mixed emotion and confusion. I don't know what to say. But she crawled forward to sit next to him, bending her dark head to look up into his tortured face. "I . . . didn't mean to betray you. I . . . I didn't—"
"I know," his melodic voice breathed, and he squeezed the pale sand through his fingers, the grains crunching against each other.
I . . . I'm your servant, and . . . just a Seraphim, she felt new tears begin, and he raised his head, eyes opening to stare at her. "No . . . no." Before she could do more than blink, he had turned and grasped at her wrists, bowing over himself to touch his forehead against the sand.
"Meliael, forgive me," he muttered into the silt. "Don' leave me. I'll never make another crack about your ass, I'll never ask ya' t' sleep with me again, I'll even stop tellin' you bad jokes. I'll never even say anything else that even makes it sound like you might be my friend, if you'll just promise t' stay. I ain't got nobody else," his muffled voice began to falter as she stared down at him, overwhelmed by his emotion. "I . . . you're it, baby. All I got. Forgive me. I never meant you t'see that statue, I ain't stalkin' you, I swear. I just . . ."
He's . . . shaking, some distant part of her mind realized. His entire body vibrated as he gripped her arms tightly and bent prostrate over the sand, begging her. The Angel of Death is . . . groveling, she marveled. For me.
"Yes, yes, I'm groveling," he growled, tone husky and thick with emotion. "I never grovel, not even for God, and here I am, groveling for you, dammit," his shoulders convulsed again, voice catching.
The pure agony brought forth her tears to flow from her eyes once more, and she pulled her wrists away gently to take his hands in hers. "Azrael . . . don't do this to yourself. You . . . I . . ." I don't want to leave, she thought, and began pulling him back up into a seated position, dragging his limp form up and wrapping her arms around him.
"But . . ." he stammered, yet eagerly returned her embrace and clutched her slight frame closer until she was once again seated over his lap, "oh, Mel. How can you forgive me? I had a statue of you," his cheeks colored, eyes dropping to the sandy beach, avoiding her own. "I . . . it's inappropriate."
She sighed and nodded. "It was. You rose me up as an idol. Azrael, I'm not a god."
"No," he spoke forcefully, and his eyes locked onto her own suddenly and echoed the ferocity of his words. "But if a statue was as close as I was gonna get, I was happy to have it. I never worshipped you, Mel. I just . . . became obsessed."
She watched him as he blushed again, lifting his hand from her to cover his face in shame. "And," he added, "that's why you should leave. I can't . . . I shouldn't feel this way about my second in command. But I can't help myself from beggin' you t'stay. 'Cause I'm just that pathetic and desperate."
Meliael looked at him as she raised a hand to brush over his forehead and smooth away his bangs. His eyes opened wide in surprise as she continued, sliding her fingers down his soft cheek and across his jaw, before cupping his face in her palm. "M-Mel?" he stammered.
Gathering all of her courage, she set her eyes upon his full lips, then leaned forward and placed her own against them, and held herself there. A moment of electrified silence passed, before she felt him pull her closer, and the warmth within intensified to a tingling jolt as he deepened the kiss, crushing her tightly to himself.
I forgive you, Azrael. You know I do. I always do.
His tongue slid between her lips and she opened her mouth, feeling her entire body become enflamed as he rolled her onto her back along the shoreline, his hands running along her shoulders and back, and now brushing teasingly over her clothed stomach. "Mel," he murmured as he pulled away and dotted small kisses across her face, "please tell me this isn't some kinda' joke, because I don't think I could take it."
"No joke," she whispered, gazing up at him happily from where she lay along the sand, one hand rising to run over his chestnut locks. "I forgive you unconditionally. I always have."
"But, w-what about the . . . kissing," he murmured, bending to nuzzle against her neck. "Dammit, Mel, you're tormenting me. I don't think I could stand it if this were the last time I got to do this. To touch you . . . like this . . ."
She took his hands in hers, halting his progress towards more indecent places and pulled them to her mouth, kissing each palm. "It won't be," she answered his tormented gaze. "Because . . . I love you."
A sob caught in her throat at the pure, brilliant joy that shined in his eyes in the split-second before he dove at her, wrapping her up into his arms and rolling them both around on the sand, his relieved laugher sounding at once both dazed and giddy.
"I love you, too, babe," he finally said as he rolled her on top of him, their robes covered in fine silvery sand and matted with salt. "I always did," his amethyst eyes shimmered up at her. "From the moment you were created. I . . . can't remember a time that I didn't. Oh, Mel . . ."
Quickly, she bent forward to kiss him before his tears could be shed, and thus intertwined, their emotions joined together and buoyed them into a blissful oblivion, a brilliance that banished all the darkness of Hell that surrounded them.
I, too, loved you for the longest time. And I always will.
-:(-(-(-)-)-):-
